


Breaking Point

by Quiet_Shadow



Series: Prisoners and Quintessons [2]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mech Preg, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Violence, Prisoner of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Called in to deal with a grumpy captive medic, Megatron forces out a conversation and Ratchet can only listen and counter with snark as a silver tongue threatens his resolve more than the Quintessons ever could have. For in the end, it's not always the traumatic ordeal that might break you, no; sometimes, your breaking point is far more insidious...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> So, since 'Of Prisoners and Quintessons' got such a warm reception, it motivated me into writing this new piece, situated in the same verse. And of course I had to torture Ratchet (for once). I figured that as the oldest mech on board and an actual fighter in the Great War, he'd be perfect to have a conversation with Megatron. Then it kinda grew out of control as I remembered a few things *coughscoughsomegacoughscoughssupremecoughscoughs* and decided Megatron wouldn't be the type to neglect an advantage just dropping in his laps.  
> Hopefully, my dear readers, you won't try and kill me for it ^^

“I’ve been told you refused to refuel yet again.”

The sentence sounded casual, amiable, but to Ratchet’s audio receptors, there was a hint of steel underneath Megatron’s words, and he had to suppress a shudder. Holding his glossa, he kept his back purposely turned to the Decepticon Leader who had just entered his room -- though in Ratchet’s mind, it wasn’t much more than a cell. A gilded, comfortable cell, but a cell all the same. The Decepticons at least didn’t try to pretend otherwise… most of the time. Ratchet’s lips curled in disgust at the false cheer they used to point out how ‘nice’ the room was, how well furnished when many mechs didn’t have anything but a berth and chair to their name. And, oh my, Ratchet had a window! Did he know how many Decepticons wished for a room with a window?

Meh. He would have gladly let them have it.

His optics wandered over the city below. So high in the tower, he had a good view to the horizon. The scenery, however, left much to be desired.

It was obvious at first gaze that the Decepticon so-called ‘capital’ of New Kaon was a mess -- a still developing mess, if Ratchet had to judge by the half-constructed, skeletic buildings littering badly defined streets. The only part that seemed to be fully constructed and functional were the factories, which clanging noise could be heard even faintly from here, and a couple of streets lit by red lamps. No need to be a genius to know what the medic would find there if he managed to escape his cell.

He hugged his frame close, feeling suddenly tired and cold -- and even if he wouldn’t acknowledge it aloud where Megatron could hear him, very lonely. This desolate place did little to sooth his overworking processor. The city laid sprawled at his pedes, the fumes of factories raising high in the sky and half-masking the stars above. Lights kept flickering in the streets, and the loud noise of engines filled the air whenever a flyer went by the tower’s windows.

Behind him, he felt Megatron move, coming closer, and he also heard the ‘ping’ that indicated the door had locked behind the Warlord. The Decepticons took no chances of him -- of any of their Autobot captives, really -- escaping. Ratchet flinched when a large hand landed on his shoulder. Megatron didn’t force him to turn, letting him have this small mercy and not forcing the medic to face him, but Ratchet could make out his reflection in the glass panels, and the Warlord looked less than impressed.

“Honestly, medic, I’m most disappointed in you. I would have expected you, of all mechs, to know the importance of a daily, even energon consummation, especially in your state. But perhaps the fuel’s quality is not to your liking?”

Ratchet gritted his dental plates, refusing to speak. Megatron waited for a few kliks, obviously waiting for an answer the medic had no intention to give him, then his hand started to move. At first it was a light brush over the Autobot’s neck as he loomed closer, so close in fact Ratchet could feel the hot air expelled by his vents against him. Then the medic almost whimpered when a large thumb started to massage his shoulder plate in slow circles. He shook himself and broke out the weak hold, turning to glare at the Warlord for daring to be so… so slagging intimate! His anger deflated as soon as he gazed into the taller mech’s face.

By Megatron’s smirk, it had been his intention all along. There he had managed to make Ratchet turn and face him, without force. Just by playing on the medic’s discomfort in face of caresses.

“Isn’t it nicer to discuss face to face?” the Warlord asked, looking amused at the way Ratchet growled at him before huffing and avoiding his gaze, lips firmly pinched together. Fragger.

“A steely silence to let your anger show will lead you nowhere, medic -- though it is a definitive improvement over Starscream’s constant bitching when things aren’t going his way.” A shadow passed briefly over his face as he lowered his optics to take a good look at Ratchet’s belly, making the Autobot feel self-conscious. His physiognomy, like Bulkhead, reflected little in term of weight and protoform gain due to his already protuberant belly. Or at least it showed little of his state for now. Ratchet could still feel the weight gain though, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his belly plating started to swell to accommodate the growing Sparkling, especially given the size of the Sire.

“For your sake and the little one’s, I truly hope he or she will take after you and not its Sire,” Megatron stated calmly, and this time Ratchet had to growl and snap back.

“For the sake of the little one and mine’s, I would very much like you to step away from me!” He took a step back, shoulders hitting the window and he cursed at himself for letting himself be so easily cornered. He tried not to squirm under the intense red gaze, and barely hid his relief when Megatron indeed took a step back, stopping to loom so close. However it didn’t escape the medic he stayed into grabbing distance, easily able to grasp a wrist or an elbow and manhandle his captive should he wish to.

“There is no need to be so tense, medic; you have hardly anything to fear from me,” the grey mech said smoothly, sounding so sure and so fragging persuasive, but Ratchet wasn’t Sparked from yesterday.

“Could have fooled me,” he drawled, Spark beating fast. Megatron’s close presence was unnerving, as it always was when the Warlord visited him, and Ratchet didn’t think he’d ever get fully used to it. In all logic, an encounter with the leader of the Decepticons could and should only end up in one way; with the unfortunate Autobot’s greying chassis crashing to the floor after getting beaten up.

But here Ratchet was, feeling like a trapped Glitch-Mouse, Megatron not raising a hand to harm him and instead trying to coerce him into… well, what he was trying to obtain wasn’t fully clear, but the medic had a sneaky feeling he knew.

After all, he had made such a stupid, rookie mistake when the ‘Con rescue team had barged on the Quintessons’ base and he had learned the ‘Orion’ was anchored to the station...

“You should drop the niceties, Megatron,” he finally grunted, looking away from the Warlord, trying desperately to hide his trouble and his despair. “You and I know full well you don’t care about me.”

“Oh? And why wouldn’t I?”

Swarmy slagger. Ratchet’s optics narrowed.

“Do you want the short list of the long one?” he barked, crossing his arms over his chest almost defensively. What he wouldn’t give to have his magnets back, so he had a proper way to defend himself if the need arose! But they had been carefully extracted, just like Optimus’ grapplers, or Bulkhead’s wrecking ball or Bumblebee’s stingers. ‘For their safety’, his aft!

“Color me curious, medic, but I’d be satisfied with either one,” the Warlord shrugged before he started to be -- ugh -- cajoling. “Why don’t you come to sit so we can hit the high points over a cube of energon?” Pure formality; even as he spoke, he had already grabbed Ratchet’s arm gently but firmly, and it was clear he would frog-march the medic to the nearest couch at best, and throw him over his shoulder to carry him at worst.

Fatigue fell over Ratchet’s frame and he sighed; why did he try to resist again? He couldn’t get out, he already knew it. He knew it as surely as he could feel the Sparkling growing inside him solar cycle after solar cycle, expending his reproduction chamber and pushing his internal into reconfiguring themselves to make way for its future growth. He could only wait for the Decepticons to be done with this parody of care they were giving their captives, and hope he’d survive the ordeal.

Resigned, he let Megatron guide him to the couch -- an old, battered thing that had obviously seen better days, just like Ratchet himself. It had apparently been seized from someone’s quarters in an attempt to furnish the medic’s room with something relatively comfortable to sit in, not including the berth. If it didn’t show how derelict New Kaon was, then nothing would. It was obvious their exile from Cybertron hadn’t been tender for the Decepticons, far from it, though they had apparently managed to pull their weight together. They had almost a dozen of planets under their name by now, or so the medic had been led to believe. New Kaon, Lucifer, Chaar,... he had heard those names dropped in conversations every now and there, planets and satellites which were forming the basis of the new Empire. A still fragile Empire, one which wouldn’t be able to grow out for million stellar cycles more, unless it received some serious help -- help like the Allspark, or…

Ratchet grunted as he sat down, Megatron only letting go of his arm after he was truly settled, even slipping a cushion to rest against the small of the medic’s back in an attempt to make him more comfortable. Then he grabbed a chair and straddled it, sitting across the medic with his elbows on the back of the seat and his chin in his hands.

“Now, how about you share the reasons which make you so grumpy lately and make you doubt my care?” the Warlord let out amiably, as if he wasn’t discussing with a prisoner but an equal. He certainly enjoying playing mind games, Ratchet thought wistfully

“Do I truly need to spell it out for you?” He tried to put as much venom as he could in his words, but his voice felt flat, beaten. “You never showed such ‘care’ for Autobots before, no matter how badly injured by your troops.”

Megatron made a vague gesture. “The necessities of war…”

Ratchet’s distress let place to true anger for a moment and he saw red. “Don’t speak of war with me, you slagger! I’m not Optimus or one of the young ‘bots, for whom it’s old history and hasn’t any real impact on their lives! I actually lived it, including the gruesome parts! I spent my function putting back together mechs your troops abused -- even in an intimate manner. Especially in an intimate manner!” he snapped. Megatron stiffened but didn’t interrupt the irate medic.

“Oh, you can play all righteous and mighty now, trying to amend for your ‘crime’, but did you ever publically condemned what was happening in your prison camps? Did you ever care for the victims your mechs massacred? Did you ever care when some of them even killed their own troops?” he added with disgust, remembering Hydrax Plateau and Oil Slick far too well. A part of his faith in his fellow mechanisms had died that day, among the Cosmic Rust victims. “You never slagging cared about any of them, so why am I different? Why are WE different?! Is that because this time, you personally witnessed the event? Because you actually participated?! Are you trying to snuff out your guilt by ‘pampering’ us? Tell me why, you slag-head!” he finally exploded, falling back in the couch as if all strength had suddenly been drained from him.

Megatron contemplated him silently for a moment, tilting his head to the side. He looked so calm it rattled Ratchet’s frayed CPU further.

“Do you regret the fact we’re treating you decently, Autobot?” the Warlord finally asked calmly, making Ratchet purse his lips. “Do you wish to be dragged down to the sublevels in chains, forced in a cramped cell, locked behind forcefields and energy bars? Would it allow you to feel better about yourself? Because if so, it could easily be arranged.” There was a warning glint in those red optics as he looked Ratchet up and down. “I wouldn’t give you a decacycle before you started to beg to be reconducted here.”

“Is that a challenge?” Ratchet huffed, thought he felt unsure and there was only so much he could say or do to avoid faltering. He had been a war prisoner before, albeit briefly, and he remembered far too well what a prison camp was and felt like. When he had been younger, he could have endured it with a shrug, but now? He wasn’t a young ‘bot anymore -- or at least, he wasn’t in his prime anymore, his systems not as well-maintained as they should have been. Megatron, Ultra Magnus, Lugnut,... they all were as old if not older than him, but they had aged well. Ratchet… had not. And the Decepticon pseudo-medic… well, the mech obviously had had some training, but Ratchet suspected it was more as a nurse than as a true medic. Warbuilds seldom choose to study medicine, even before Cybertron’s government started to become hostile toward them. Anyway, the medical personnel who had looked him over had bluntly but clearly stated Ratchet’s systems weren’t in good state when he had examinated him.

For that, the old medic could only blame himself. Too much time losing his sorrow in high grade or cheap sludge across Cybertron’s many bars until he managed to get a grip and go back to his pedes had left their marks. He would probably never admit it to Optimus, but there had been a reason he had ended up as the medic for a Space Bridge repair crew, and it wasn’t only because it allowed him to keep serving on the Orion. Nor was it -- entirely -- because High Command would prefer the surviving Supremes’ mentors to keep a low profile.

His silence and his hesitation didn’t escape Megatron. The Warlord smirked, satisfied.

“I thought so. And now we made it clear that you wouldn’t enjoy ‘standard treatment’ for prisoners, how about you actually drink the fuel I’ve brought you?” he said, moving to take a sealed cube out of subspace. Ratchet accepted it with a sigh, reaching out with slightly shaking hands and making a face at the greenish fuel. Medical grade energon tasted like slag, even laced with additives. Still, he removed the cover and sipped slowly at the liquid, wincing at the bitterness.

Megatron shifted, letting his chin rest in a single hand as he watched Ratchet take small mouthfuls after small mouthfuls.

“To answer your question, medic, perhaps I’m treating you, ah, so well because I don’t like being forced into a distasteful act against my will. Especially not against a bunch of civilians.” His olfactive sensor twitched at the word ‘distasteful’, but Ratchet couldn’t bring himself to find it funny. “Especially not,” he added with a grimace, “when there are consequences to say act.”

“‘Consequences’,” Ratchet repeated after swallowing a mouthful and staring at the energon left in the cube, making it swirl. No need to be a genius to know what the Warlord was alluding to without daring to actually say it. “Is that to mean that you would have let us go our merry way had you not managed to Spark us up?” he asked, voice dripping with irony.

“Didn’t we have this conversation already a while back?” the Warlord asked, raising an optic ridge.

And they had, thought in not so many words -- and the Warlord probably had it with the other Autobots as well. Ratchet just looked at him flatly. “Humor me.”

“Then the answer you seek is ‘probably’,” Megatron shrugged, his tone deceptively light. “I might even have allowed you to if it hadn’t be MINE and those of some of my highest ranked officers in your gestation chambers. But I’m not stupid enough to let the Magnus and his Council get their greasy paws on mechlings they would use as political leverage.” Fury danced briefly in his optics before it was erased and calm took over.

“You think I’m going to believe that?” Ratchet sneered, though it lacked heat as he remembered how many Sparklings with Decepticon coding he had helped bring into this word during and shortly after the war. Most mechs who found himself faced with the problem opted to snuff out the budding Sparkling the moment it was discovered, but there were still some who couldn’t bring themselves to do so, accepting to carry to term… even if they didn’t kept the Sparklings most of the time. The Sires had been common foot soldiers, nameless, faceless grunts as far as Autobot Command had been concerned, so no Autobot had ever been prosecuted or the Sparklings used against the Sires, but… He couldn’t deny the underlying truth in Megatron’s words, as much as he wanted. A son or daughter of Megatron would have much value for a number of parties, and the Magnus was only one of them.

The Warlord probably knew he had struck true, because he smirked again, though it was mirthless. “If you didn’t think I was right, you wouldn’t have asked that question.”

He purred and stretched his limbs, making Ratchet self-aware of how large he was next to the Autobot medic. “If the Quintessons’ plan hadn’t come to fruition, rest assured I wouldn’t have had any interest in treating you well -- or even in keeping you around. I may felt charitable enough to have one of my medics assert your health and repair what needed to be repaired, then let you go your way in that suspiciously innocuous ship of yours.” A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Just as well I didn’t, did I?”

Ratchet stiffened. Here it was, his biggest mistake ever, thrown at his face by Megatron under the cover of innocent, unaffected words.

“You know, I think you’re selling yourself short, medic. But that’s alright; I’ve noticed this is something quite common with Autobots.” His voice affected a casual and reassuring tone, but Ratchet wasn’t fooled, knowing far too well already where the conversation was headed. His Spark started to sink as his optics crossed Megatron’s.

“Please…” he whispered, hoping the Warlord would drop the subject.

No chance, of course. Megatron had a point to make, after all.

“I’ve read your files, _Ratchet_.” He didn’t quite purr when he pronounced the medic’s name, but his engines definitely revved and it sent a shudder down the medic’s backstrut. “It was quite interesting. A Protihex Medical Mechanics University’s trainee, who graduated in the top five percents of the school’s best pupils since its creation. Valedictorian of its promotion, who choose to open a clinic in the Dead Ends instead of integrating Iacon General or to become a private medic for the so-called Cybertronian ‘elite’. Too bad the clinic burned down even before the war started,” Megatron commented, and it was hard to say if he was genuine or not.

Ratchet looked away. “Yeah, a damn pity,” he muttered as flatly as he could, though his EM field rippled with sadness, regret and a touch of rage. He had been doing such a good job for the mechs and femmes who had lived down there in the Dead Ends, too poor to get access to regular care, helping junkies get unhooked from their various addictions, getting buymechs upgraded firewalls so they wouldn’t catch virus during their, ah, trade, or anti-Sparking protocol to let them avoid ‘consequences’ that came naturally in their trade. And more than once, he had had to help them safely ‘get rid of the consequences’, never judging and trying to lean a sympathetic audio to their plights, listening to their reasons and whispering encouragements to those he could.

He could honestly say had been making a difference -- a limited one, given the bad state of the area, but a difference all the same, and Ratchet was convinced he could have done much, much more if the clinic indeed hadn’t burned down while he was away. Then the war had broke out, and any plan he had had to rebuild it had been stalled -- then forgotten entirely.

“Did you know several of your former patients did join side with my Decepticons?” Ratchet twitched, but didn’t dare going for a sharp retort. Of course he had known; Intelligence had rubbed it in his face early in the war, trying to get intel on those poor slaggers who had chosen what they had come to see as the less corrupted party. Not that Ratchet had had much to give -- nor had he been willing to share what he knew. Doctor-patient confidentiality existed for a reason, after all. Highbrow Prime hadn’t been happy, but he had backed down in the end, especially after the Ministry of Medicine had rallied behind Ratchet to defend him. Well, defend a principle, with Ratchet being just a convenient excuse.

“They remember you well, medic. Why, some of them even petitioned me to try and visit you,” Megatron continued in a casual tone, optics roaming over Ratchet’s form.

“Did they?” The medic answered in a small voice, glad he had enough nerves to hide the slight shaking of his hands at the unexpected news. He tried to keep his tone steady and not dry swallow, trying to simulate disinterest. “Good for them then.” But obviously he wasn’t fooling Megatron.

“I had to sadly turn them down. Security reasons, you understand,” Megatron continued and Ratchet straightened with narrowed optics. The Warlord’s tone was still casual, but his optics had hardened, his features straightened in a serious expression. “I couldn’t have one of them, hostile to Starscream, try to raise a hand against you. Nor could I allow soft-Sparked mechs to be guilt-tripped into helping you leave New Kaon.”

“... which was the most likely?” Ratchet asked, voice dripping with bitterness. Of course Megatron wasn’t an idiot, he had seen it coming even Ratchet could formulate the idea in the back of his CPU. The worse, though? The Warlord had the nerves to chide him!

“Now, that would be telling, medic. You shouldn’t burden your processor with such questions...”

“Burden my processor, my aft!” Ratchet finally snapped, anger rising. On an impulsion, he threw his almost-empty by now energon cube to Megatron’s face, though the grey mech easily dodged the projectile. It only added to the medic’s ire. “Don’t you dare to patronize me, Megatron! I may be Carrying, but it hasn’t affected my CPU!”

“Clearly not,” was the calm answer. “Which is a good thing, for you will need your skills and wits soon enough. Your Prime has started to become quite relentless in his demands to see you or, shall I say, see any member of your team.” Ratchet froze, the crest of his wave of anger crashing suddenly. Megatron examinated his digits with interest, not looking at the smaller mech. “He doesn’t seem to be convinced by my own medical staff’s reassurances and keep asking for your expertise. But perhaps I should refuse to grant him his request once more? After all, you’re hardly a picture of stability yourself, and you might only upset him further…”

“... blackmail now?” Ratchet managed to work out between clenched dental plates, trying to reign in his bitterness, fading anger and a strange mix of hope and weariness. “What a surprise.”

“I would hardly consider it blackmail, medic. A simple warning, that’s all,” Megatron dismissed. His optics wandered over Ratchet’s frame again, with less amusement and more contemplation. “I trust you’re smart enough to take it at face value, unlike Starscream. Then again, he did this time,” he mused aloud, and Ratchet winced.

The reason of Starscream’s sudden take-off from New Kaon two decacycles earlier was an open secret, even to the captive Autobots. Everyone knew the Seeker had put together one too many schemes and this time, Megatron wasn’t willing to forgive. Starscream only owned his life to the fact Megatron had bigger, more important things on his CPU -- and to the fact the Warlord had decided the Sparkling had a right to know its Sire, as treacherous and pathetic as he was. And so Starscream had fled in the cover of the night as if Unicron himself was after his aft.

Personally, Ratchet couldn’t say he missed the Seeker. Being forced to stand in the same room as his rapist had been stressful to say the least -- even if Ratchet had managed to pull himself together about it. After all, he had forced himself on Starscream as much as the flier had forced himself on him… and both had done so against their will.

If he was honest, Ratchet couldn’t say he was traumatized.

Uneasy about the whole matter, sure. Disgusted by what he had been forced to perform, certainly. Angry like the Pit about what had been done to him and because he was a prisoner, most assuredly. But he wasn’t about to break down in sobs the moments he laid his optics on his ‘aggressor’ -- if anything, he had been known to throw anything that came under his hand at Starscream’s face until the Seeker had (wisely) left the planet. Unless Ratchet had missed his mark (he hadn’t), then Starscream’s helm must have spotted a nasty dent, something the medic could smirk about.

He didn’t know how his fellow Autobots were dealing with the… with, well, everything, since he hadn’t been allowed to see them since their arrival on New Kaon, but Ratchet felt the worst was over in his case. He wasn’t one of the weak-willed romance novel’s characters young Autobots enjoyed reading about; he was a war veteran who had been confronted to more awful things than forced interfacing before. He was pulling together pretty well, or he tried to. Ratchet wasn’t going to let itself been dragged down by rape-by-Quintesson, not now, not ever.

And… he had the feeling Megatron might have shared this mindset. Not that he dared to ask the question, nor was he truly interested in hearing whatever personal feeling the Warlord might have. Ratchet was no psychologist, and he had no desire to become one.

“Would you like to examine him, then?”

Megatron’s question pulled him out of his musing and Ratchet considered the offer with narrowed optics.

“Why?” He finally let out after a moment of tense silence. “My answer will be ‘yes’ no matter what you might say, because I won’t let a fellow Autobot down, but tell me why you’re offering me this, ah, ‘chance’,” Ratchet quoted flatly. “I doubt it’s only to appease Optimus, so why? What is the catch? There is always a catch.”

… Was it him, or was Megatron looking at him in approval?

“No catch, medic,” the grey mech assured him. “You could say, however, that I’m rewarding you by allowing you to practice your art -- with of course the bonus side effect of soothing the frayed CPU of my Sparkling’s Carrier. It’s even a double, and even a triple reward.” He counted on his fingers. “For one, you did heal several of my mechs -- albeit unknowingly and before they became mine by accepting my brand. Second, because you’re currently bearing the Creation of one of my number, however disloyal he might be.” How the Warlord managed to sound so casual when speaking of a mech he KNEW had tried to kill him and might have managed to, without the Quintessons attacking both ships, Ratchet had no idea. “Any new life which will bolster our ranks is always welcomed, and its Creators treated with respect.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Megatron; I’m not letting my Sparkling become a Decepticon, or only over my dead, rusting body!” Ratchet growled, trying to hide a rising feeling of unease. He had expected Megatron to drop the bombshell earlier, but it was as if the Warlord had decided to keep ammos just for this moment. His Spark was on the verge of dropping, as he knew, he just knew what Megatron was going to say now.

“Oh, you can never know, medic. And even if it remains Neutral, your Creation will be well-treated by my mechs, if only because it will be the Creation of a major contributor to our final victory. And you are; because, after all,” Megatron’s smirk widened and Ratchet’s Spark dropped further in its casing. “you did give us access to Omega Supreme.” The Warlord was practically purring, and his face reminded the medic of a content, self-satisfied Cybercat.

Ratchet’s entire frame slumped. Here it was, out in the open, his greatest shame, the worry that was eating at his Spark solar cycle after solar cycle. All that because he had panicked when their ‘rescuers’ had stormed the Quintessons’ base. And what a ‘rescue’ it had been! Ratchet would never forget the way the wall had exploded, the massive frame of infamous General of Destruction Strika barreling in, shoulder canons firing at full power at the nearest Quintesson in her sight.

The resulting goo and burned and mashed tentacles pieces had flew everywhere, one of them landing on the medic’s helm when he didn’t duck fast enough. Then more Decepticons had barged in, shouting war cries, and… Well, everything had been chaotic back then. After being struck by a piece of debris and standing too close to an explosion, Ratchet’s processor had been too scrambled for him to remember everything. He had the barest recollection of seeing Optimus with his axe in hand, chopping at something or someone, dental plates bared, of someone shouting to ‘protect the Autobots’ and ‘take them down carefully’ simultaneously, of Starscream’s screeching rising high above the melee, and of being picked up like a Sparkling and huddled in someone’s arms as they run out of the room and toward the Decepticons’ ship.

That’s it, until the medic had heard someone ask if they were to leave the Autobots’ ship behind.

Snapping like he did had been plain stupid, he could see it in retrospect. Kicking, wriggling, screaming, biting whoever was carrying him even had been obvious clues there had been more than meet the optics to their rundown ship, and that was even before an upset Ratchet had resorted to plain begging. Which hadn’t been strictly necessary, to be honest; having caught the medic’s obvious distress and desperation, Megatron had already started to suspect something and sent some of his mechs retrieve the ship out of whatever docking bay it was anchored at.

Ratchet shouldn’t have let his feelings overcome his processor, he knew it. But he couldn’t have let the _Orion_ \-- no, he couldn’t have let OMEGA behind in the hands of the Quintessons, for what if the aliens discovered what it truly was?

And ironically, it was the Decepticons who had gotten their greasy paws on his old friend and found out what had become of the last Supreme… and would now use him in their nefarious plots to take over Cybertron.

“Please…” he begged. What exactly he begged for, he had no idea. Megatron just looked at him with a raised optic ridge, obviously waiting for him to develop, but Ratchet couldn’t. The words were stuck in his vocalizer, half-formed in his processor, unable to get out. “Please… what are you going to do with him?” he tried again, with more force, but his voice still sounded too faint to his taste, far from the assurance he had showed earlier.

“How strange it is,” the Warlord finally said after a long moment of silence, “how the most unexpected things can break us. One would have thought our ordeal at the hands of the Quintessons to be your breaking point. Stronger mechs have lived through forced interfacing and ended broken from the ordeal. You didn’t -- if anything, you probably ended up stronger from it -- from surviving. But in the end, it is a comatose ship-wide mech who is your linchpin, and its safety which is causing your unravel and your downfall.” He eyed Ratchet with what probably was sympathy, but the medic didn’t care. Whatever sympathy Megatron held wouldn’t sway him from using Omega Supreme against the Autobots in one way or another.

He rose from his seat with a grace unexpected from such a large frame and, after walking to him, put his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders. They were warm, so big… they had probably crushed limbs and helms alike like they would have broken twigs, and here they were, resting simply on an Autobot medic’s shoulders, thumbs slowly rubbing circles over pauldrons in a parody of soothing gesture. Ratchet refused to look up and meet the Warlord’s face any longer; if he did, then he would either burst into sobs or start screaming in rage, and neither outcome sounded good.

He was tired. So tired of everything… He was a prisoner, and he couldn’t do anything. Not to free himself, not to free Omega, and not to free his team. His frame was burdened with the steady growth of a Sparkling he didn’t desire, and his processor was starting to become hazy with confusion, stress and distress. Later, his temper would rise again, and so would his fighting spirit, but right now? He just wanted to be left alone.

“What more do you want from me?” he whispered, his voice so low it was barely audible. If one couldn’t hear his pain and sadness, it certainly felt in his EM field, and Megatron couldn’t pretend not knowing.

Red optics flashed briefly. “Nothing, medic. Just that you rest, refuel and watch for the safety of your future Sparkling. Oh, and to have you work your magic fingers over your Prime’s frame, if only to help calm him down,” he added as an afterthought. “The rest doesn’t concern you.”

A bitter smile spread over the medic’s face. “Of course you’d say that…”

Megatron just smiled. It was thin, tense, barely a smile at all, but it was there. “And I hope you’ll have the good sense to listen, at least for a time. Now, go rest. Guards will come to pick you up to go see Optimus Prime next solar cycle. And I trust I will not have to drop by to remind you to refuel again,” he added curtly with a small nod toward the cube Ratchet had emptied earlier. And with that, he turned his heels and left, the door opening and locking again behind him.

Ratchet just stared at it, optics lost and unfocused. Megatron’s departure felt like an hasty departure to avoid digging deeper into an unpleasant conversation, but honestly? It was probably just as well he left.

Hugging his shoulders and trying not to shudder from a sudden cold feeling, Ratchet sighed.

At least, with this visit to Optimus, he had something to look forward to and take his mind off of Omega and the Autobots’ future in general...


End file.
